Adjusting
by BlueSkye12
Summary: John was a soldier. It was going to take time for him to adjust to civilian life.
1. CH 1 -- That First Night

_**Adjusting**_

_John was a soldier. It was going to take time for him to adjust to civilian life. _

_Ch 1 – That First Night _ (edited and re-posted 11/5/13)

It was going 1 a.m. by the time Sherlock and John had arrived at the Chinese restaurant on Baker St., and Sherlock had thoroughly instructed John as to what to look for on the bottom third of the door handle. The owner, Xinming Lu, was delighted to see the detective and, like Angelo, insisted that they both order whatever they wanted on the house. Unlike Angelo, Mr. Lu did not feel the need to bring a candle for the table. John was frankly relieved, not only by the lack of candle, but by the free meal. Of course, he did have the cash for dinner, he wasn't quite that pathetic, but he would have to be very careful with his finances going forward if he were to afford the rent at 221B Baker St, special deal or no. And he _was_ starving. Dim sum, kung pao chicken, lo mein, Szechuan vegetables and white rice, John and Sherlock devoured every last morsel. John was impressed by the amount of food that the skinny detective tucked away. He ate like he hadn't eaten in days! Not surprisingly, Sherlock did most of the talking. John nodded appreciatively as he chewed and asked all the right leading questions. _So how could the brother's ladder tell you anything? _A few times, Sherlock stopped short after such a question and simply stared at his dinner companion with a slight hint of a smile. _What?_ Sherlock never gave him a reply but John had the impression that he had just passed some unspoken test. Mr. Lu finally closed the doors behind them at 2:30 a.m.

A companionable silence settled between the unlikely pair as they walked back up Baker Street to 221B. Sherlock wore a hint of a smile as he continued his silent analysis of the enigma walking next to him. John was an idiot, of course, and utterly unobservant like everyone else but there was _something_ about him. Something beyond excellent skill with firearms, although that was likely to come in quite handy. There was something Sherlock did not quite understand, a mystery. And there was nothing that Sherlock Holmes liked better than turning a good mystery over in his mind as he walked. For his part, John was tired and had pretty much given up thinking for rest of the night. He had briefly considered continuing on to his old flat but he had long since missed the last Tube and was currently off taxis, given the night's events. Besides, he really was exhausted. Sherlock barely glanced back as John followed him up the stairs into 221B. The bed in the room upstairs was not made up but that did not phase him. John had slept under a lot worse conditions. He found an old blanket on the shelf in the wardrobe. He toed off his shoes and hung his black coat on the bed post. John then wrapped himself, fully dressed, in the blanket and was a sleep almost instantly. When he awoke shortly before 9:00, the smell of Mrs. Hudson's freshly baked blueberry scones was wafting up the stairs.

John sat on the edge of the bed and surveyed his room. He hadn't really had a chance to look at it properly yet. It was a smallish attic room with second-hand furniture. Not much, really, just a desk, a dresser and a night table in addition to the four-poster bed and the rather small wardrobe. The single window, which had home-made blue and cream plaid curtains, opened on to a fire escape that went up to the roof as well as down to the alley. John smiled to himself. He liked this place. His housing while in the army had not been bad. When in England, his quarters, as an officer, had always been quite adequate and comfortable. Sometimes, like during the three months he spent on an exchange to the Mayo Clinic in America_, _his quarters had bordered on luxurious_._ This, however, was different. He listened to the sounds of Sherlock stirring down stairs and breathed in the heavenly aroma of the scones. This was something John had not known for a long, long time. This just might be home.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**A/N –**_ OK, I am still not at sure where this is going :- ) I have all these fragments of head canon for John's transition during the first season, his meeting the other characters (like his and Lestrade's first conversation, he and Mrs Hudson getting acquainted over crap TV, etc.). I think this is going to be a prequel to my story Sensitivity Training then maybe I'll be able to write the second chapter to that! Please read and review and let me know if it's worth continuing or if you have any ideas or requests.

Not beta'd or Brit picked.


	2. CH 2 -- A History of Military Service

_Ch. 2 – A History of Military Service_

John descended the stairs to find Sherlock rooting through an untidy pile of boxes next to the bookshelves. He was wearing a blue dressing gown over his dress shirt and black trousers and bare feet.

"Ah, John. I assume you'll be moving your belongings today. Do you happen to have a kettle? I seem to have misplaced mine. Pity, the heating element was idea for warming glycerins and parafins."

"Of course I have a kettle but I'll thank you not to put anything but water in it," John replied flatly casting a despairing look about the cluttered sitting room. "You are going clear things up, aren't you?" he asked trying to keep his voice light. Sherlock ignored him completely in favor of his kettle search. At that moment, Mrs. Hudson came to the open door with a quiet "hoo hoo". She had a tray with tea and still-warm scones. John scrambled to help her with the tray while Sherlock up ended another box without even looking up.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson you really shouldn't have," John started.

"Well, just this once, dear. I heard you get in so late last night and knew you couldn't have been to the shops yet." Sherlock made a triumphant dive into yet another pile.

"Yes. YES!" He raised the missing kettle in triumph. He then turned finally noticing Mrs. Hudson and the tray of tea. "Oh," he said slightly crest fallen. "Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. Yes, tea would be lovely," and he carelessly flipped the kettle onto the nearest pile.

"Just this once," Mrs. Hudson reiterated waggling a finger toward Sherlock.

/-/-/-/-/-/

An hour later, after John had done the washing up, Sherlock left for New Scotland Yard to see Lestrade and John headed back to his tiny bedsit. He found the grumbling, old land lord, Mr. Maddipoti, in the basement tinkering with the decrepit, ancient washing machine and gave him his notice. Like most of the tenants, John had been paying weekly, in advance. Mr. Maddipoti barely grunted in his direction in reply and John wonder vaguely if Mr. Maddipoti even knew which unit he was in. It took John less than an hour to pack and clean the flat. He left in a taxi the same way he'd come 7 weeks prior with his large green army duffle bag, his army pack, his laptop and a single suitcase.

/-/-/-/-/-/

The next morning John took Mike Stamford up on his offer of a lift to Harry's place up in Camden Town. He had stored his books and some other things there before he had last been deployed to Afghanistan. John had never been one for accumulating possession and everything fit easily into Mike's trusty old Citroen hatchback. Mike reminisced all the while about other moving days from their time at Uni that John honestly couldn't recall. Mike's jovial mood was soon crushed during the return trip by the absolutely brutal traffic. He and John barely had time to unload the Citroen onto the stoop of 221B before Mike had to dash off to his afternoon lecture. John propped the door to 221 open and began shuffling his things inside.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade thumbed through the ballistics report the and the photos from Roland Kerr Further Education College and placed them back in the case file. He wanted to run the whole package the past Sherlock one more time. He still wasn't satisfied with the detective's back peddling regarding the shooter. Something didn't sit right there. A kill shot with a hand gun through a window from at least 30 metres away. Sherlock had been going on about it at the scene but then stopped and he hadn't offered anymore yesterday, other than the obvious. The shooter was an expert, maybe even a pro. He checked his phone again. Sherlock wasn't responding to his texts. Lestrade sighed. Bloody perfect. Taking the file in hand, he stood and left his office. Nothing for it but to go to the annoying git's new flat, personally.

When Lestrade arrived at 221 Baker St. the outer door was slightly ajar. He pushed the door open and was just about to call a 'Hello' when a voice came down the stairwell.

"Grab something on the way up, would you?"

That must be Sherlock's supposed new flat mate. Lestrade paused to recall the name. Dr. Weston? No, Watson. God, was the man really going to move in? The DI shook his head. In the entry there was a stack of neatly packed boxes and small television. Lestrade grabbed the TV and a smallish box and headed up the stairs. He had just gained the landing when he heard foot steps coming down and the voice again,

"About your _experiment_ in the kitchen, I don't ... "

John froze half way down the stairs, his eyes widening a bit at the sight of the DI. When he continued his voice was quieter and almost a touch apprehensive.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm sorry, I though you were Sherlock. You didn't have to," John pointed wordlessly to the television and moved to take it off Lestrade's hands apologizing again.

"Oh, no problem," Lestrade countered politely. "Moving day is it, Dr. Watson?"

"John," John said out of habit.

"Greg," Lestrade offered in return.

"Um, yeah." John mumbled in reply to the DI's question lifting the television up as if in evidence.

"Are you looking for Sherlock? He's not in at the moment," John said a bit too quickly as he crossed the sitting room to place the television on top of the shelves. "I'm not quite sure where he is, actually," he continued with a small, almost shy smile. It rattled John far more than he liked to have a detective inspector from Scotland Yard suddenly appear in his flat less than three days after he had killed a man.

Lestrade scowled severely as he considered this information. Then he scanned Sherlock's detritus which still littered the room despite the detectives assurances that he would 'tidy up a bit'. The DI's copper senses were kicking in. This might be an interesting opportunity. He glanced up at the thoroughly ordinary looking man before him. He knew virtually nothing about this mysterious "flat mate" and "colleague" who had suddenly accompanied Sherlock the other night, only that Holmes had seemed to _defer_ to him twice and then abruptly sought him out after the whole mess at the College to "discuss the rent". If this guy held some sway over Sherlock, Lestrade needed to know how and why. He shook his head slowly for dramatic effect and huffed a single, disbelieving laugh.

"You're_ really_ going to live here, with _him_? You do know what he's like, don't you?" Lestrade broke into an all-too-knowing, friendly grin as he looked at John. John returned the smile with along with a sheepish, one-shoulder shrug.

"Well, you're a braver soul than me, John Watson." With that, he gave John a slight mock bow and put the box he was holding on top of a mass of Sherlock's boxes. "Here, OK?" John nodded relaxing a bit.

"As good as anywhere I suppose," he said making a futile attempt to straightened some of the mess by the shelves.

Lestrade took another quick glance around the flat. It was nice enough and well located but why would an experienced doctor need to flat share, especially with someone like Sherlock Holmes?

"So, Dr. Watson ... John," Lestrade hastily corrected himself with an engaging smile, "are you new to the city?" John took a beat before answering.

"No, not really. I, um, trained at Bart's and my sister lives up in Camden. Been away for awhile, 'though." Lestrade nodded amicably then he noticed the green canvas pack with the name tag 'WATSON' on it leaning against the wall by the door. _No, it couldn't be, could it?._

"So, what brings you back?" he smiled looking genuinely interested. John was caught short and stared dumbly back at Lestrade before clearing his throat. He hadn't actually explained this out loud yet, not to a stranger anyway.

"I've just left the army. Thought I'd looking for work here."

_You're looking for someone with a history of military service._

Only the DI's 23 years of experience allowed him to school his features and give nothing away as he studied this mystery man again. He stood straight, dressed in jeans and a plaid button-up shirt which was, in fact, buttoned right up to the top. His hair was trimmed short and neat. He could almost hear Holmes's superior drawl in his head. _Military_, _obviously_.

"Really?" Greg sounded surprised, which he guessed he was. "What? In the medical corps? Regular army or TA?"

"Regular army, I'm RAMC attached to the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. Was attached..." John quickly corrected, his ear tips flushing red.

"Really. I've got a mate who's a sergeant major with the 1st Mechanized*."

"Oh? Tank driver?" John inquired politely.

"Yeah, well, used to be. He's got some job in Whitehall now. Just don't let him park in London. No space is too small if you know what I mean." John chuckled then was quiet again. Lestrade shifted deciding to press further.

"Mind if I wait a bit, for Sherlock? I just wanted to review his statement about that crazy cabbie and the two pills business, as well as his deductions about the shooter?" he raised the case file studying John's face for a reaction. There was none other than that of a well-mannered, polite Englishman.

"Um, no, not at all. Please." John indicated the gray and red plaid armchair. "Sorry the place resembles a tip at the moment but I do think I know where the tea is." John stepped around some boxes into the kitchen and set his kettle to boil.

While John busied himself with the tea, Lestrade noticed the box placed next to the chair. It was neatly labeled Journals, 2005-2010 in a hand he knew was not Sherlock's. He casually flipped the box open. On top were several issues of 'The Annals of the Royal College of Surgeons'. Not just a doctor but a ruddy surgeon. _His hand couldn't have shaken at all. _Jesus_._

John returned with a mug of tea for Lestrade and one for himself. Lestrade regarded the man again as he accepted the steaming cup. He was a bit short with a compact build and was probably a pretty good athlete. His manner was bit reserved but otherwise he seemed completely ... normal.

"So how the heck did you ever get into this, John? How do you know Sherlock?"

"Actually, I just met him. I had a chance run-in with an old mate from Bart's, Mike Stamford," Lestrade interrupted,

"Oh, I've met Mike. Oversees the teaching labs at the hospital that Sherlock likes to haunt." John smiled politely in affirmation.

"Right. Well, I ran into Mike at the park Tuesday and he introduced us. I'd just come by to look at the place when you showed up and we headed out to Lauriston Gardens. And, well, hear we are." John spread his arms to encompass the room. "A bit crazy, I know, " he smiled, a genuine warm smile, then to Lestrade's surprise he went on. "But in that cab to Brixton he ... deduced me, you know what I mean? It was amazing, like a magic trick only it wasn't. It was real. I'd known him for about 20 minutes in total and he knew my whole life story. Then he does it again on Jennifer Wilson. I mean, would you _ever_ have known she had a case never mind that it'd be pink? That was _brilliant_." Lestrade looked thoughtfully at the doctor who was still smiling broadly. He was right. He was absolutely right. Finally, someone else who saw. Now if Sherlock could only manage not to drive him away.

"Well, mate, you didn't happen to receive any special training in the army, did you?" Lestrade asked lightly. John's smile vanished and he looked puzzled as he felt his stomach drop out. He had had quite a bit of special training.

"What do you mean?" he asked as neutrally as he could.

"Oh, I don't know. Some sort of hazardous duty training, lion taming, advanced ninja skills. Could be helpful for you," Lestrade quipped voice now teasing. John smiled, mainly in relief.

"Nope, not a ninja, but I do have some mates in 40 Commando if things get out of hand." Lestrade laughed. He liked this bloke.

After finishing his tea John stood. "Excuse me, I've got some more things to move up. I've got no idea when Sherlock will return, really, but you're welcome to wait." John smiled politely again and headed toward the door.

"Let me give you a hand, then," Lestrade offered putting his own tea down and standing up. In two trips they brought the remaining boxes up to the sitting room.

"I wonder if I can get squatter's rights if I can get my books into the shelves first," John said sardonically as he spun back to face Lestrade. His elbow bumped the top box of books which started to slide off the pile. John instinctively reached out and back with his left hand to right the heavy box, which wasn't the best idea. Lestrade also got hand on the box and managed to right it as John let out an involuntary hiss of pain and drew his arm in close to his body.

"You pull your shoulder or something?" the DI asked with friendly concern. John nodded vaguely not wanting to get into it. "Man, that can smart. I pulled mine out last year," he rolled his right shoulder, "putting up some shelves for the missus. Still not sure what I did exactly but I heard a pop, you know?" he looked at John earnestly. "I tell you I felt that bugger twinge every time I tried to reached up for the next 6 months. Couldn't even screw in a overhead light bulb. Felt like a cripple." Lestrade huffed laugh. John's face hardened for a flash before he forced something neutral and nodded again.

"It's something like that," he said flatly.

In the end, Lestrade hung around for another 15 minutes watching John stack books on the bookshelves before giving up. In that time, he and John engaged in idle conversation typical of British males. _Football or rugby? Newcastle? You support bloody Newcastle? I like playing football but rugger's much more exciting to watch. Did you see Top Gear last week? _Once back at New Scotland Yard, Lestrade wasted no time in calling his old mate the sergeant major. Three days later Lestrade stood his good mate a pint at his favorite pub. The sergeant major had just handed him the service record for one Captain John H. Watson, MD.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Whatever Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade though he'd discover in John's service record, he was not prepared for what was actually in there. John Watson had been one hell of a soldier and an excellent doctor, too. A trauma surgeon who had routinely gone up to forward areas where doctors were rarely, if ever, sent. He had been well regarded and well liked by both superior officers and subordinates. He had been decorated and had twice been mentioned in dispatches. No doubt about it, John Watson had been having one hell of a career. Had been.

Greg sat back on the sofa feet propped on the coffee table. Anna and the kids had gone to bed hours ago, it was now past midnight. He swirled the last of the scotch in his glass and looked up to the ceiling before looking once more at the last page of the folder spread open on his lap, as if the pause would change the indelible text. _Wounded in action, Helmund Province. Shot by sniper while treating casualties. Emergency evacuation. Critical-care airlift to UK. Massive post-operative infection. Permanent disability. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Unfit for Duty. Honourable Discharge (medical causes). _The last entry was dated just eight weeks ago. Greg closed his eyes and swore out loud.

"Shit."

/-/-/-/-/-/

A/N – So, what do you think? I've always though Lestrade would be on to John from the start. Please read and review (said with sad puppy dog eyes ...)

Not beta'd or Brit picked.


	3. CH 3 -- Not the John Watson He Knew

_Ch 3 - Not the John Watson He Knew_

Mike Stamford gave his 3 pm Introductory Anatomy lecture on auto-pilot that Tuesday afternoon. Not that the lecture was incomplete or lacking in any way. Mike was a good teacher and he had taught the course a half-dozen times before but his thoughts were definitely elsewhere. After Sherlock had left the lab in search of his riding crop, Mike and a perplexed John had exchanged a few more awkward pleasantries with John entering Mike's mobile number in his phone and Mike enthusiastically offering his help should John end up moving. John had then shifted his cane over to shake Mike's hand thanking him for the coffee and rotely promising to stay in touch. All the while his face remained blank and his eyes flat. Mike's heart sank a bit as he grinned like a cheerfully idiot in response. Seeing John Watson in the park, after all these years, should have been a lark. They should have exchanged hardy back slaps and ear-to-ear grins then moved on to complaining about the state of the profession.

"Sir,"

After that they might have commiserated about Newcastle's abysmal season so far.

"Please, Sir,"

They should have shown each other pictures of wives or girl friends or kids, traded e-mail addresses and parted with a plan to meet at a pub Friday next.

"_Sir_," Mike finally surfaced from his thoughts to notice the spotty youth who was addressing him. Somehow he had made his way from the lecture hall and was now standing outside his office door.

"Yes, what is it? Thompkins, is it?" Mike smiled his kindly, professorial smile. The lad only required a signature.

Mike shuttered himself in his office. He sat back in his slightly tatty office chair and looked at the various yellow Post-it notes across his desk blotter that listed the things he had considered problems before lunch. The 110 quid it would cost to fix the dishwasher, the conference with Katie's teacher and head mistress at 10 am tomorrow, having tea with Beth's overbearing dad on Saturday. His thoughts slid relentlessly back to John. _Got Shot_. Jesus Christ. Mike's reached for the framed picture on the corner of his desk. His heart literally swelled with gratitude as he stared at the photo of his beautiful family.

A lifetime ago, Mike and John had met on their first day at Bart's and felt a natural connection having both come from working class families. Although neither would have claimed any special closeness they had remained friends, drinking buddies and study partners throughout, and even kept it touch for a while after graduation. Mike had always admired John a bit. He had been athletic and clever and got on well with people. The girls all seemed to fancy him. He'd also had a certain drive. Simply achieving passing marks wasn't enough. He, like Mike, had been serious about becoming a good doctor. Although few of their classmates had understood it, John had also been serious about becoming a good soldier. After residency, when most had gone on to fellowships. John had gone to Sandhurst. Mike wasn't surprised. John had always enjoyed a challenge. He'd lived for them. Earning honours in organic chemistry just to spite the professor, no problem. Playing collegiate rugby although he was barely 10 stone soaking wet, why not? John Watson thrived under pressure like no one Mike had ever met before or since.

/-/-/-/-/-/

John had not been prepared to meet anyone during his walk that Tuesday afternoon. He had been moving like a ghost through the city for the past seven weeks. No one noticed him and he had grown comfortable with his cloak of anonymity. He was, therefore, completely unprepared to be accosted by anyone never mind someone who had known him _before_. As he had awkwardly shifted his cane to shake hands with Mike Stamford his eyes where downcast, searching for an escape. He wasn't ready for this. Mike was as friendly and effusive as ever quipping about getting fat.

"No, no," John meekly demurred looking down.

"What happened?" Mike was asking innocently, what was he supposed to say? "I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at?" John wasn't prepared for this but he still felt a bit cruel as he delivered his blunt reply,

"Got shot." He watched without expression as Stamford's kind, smiling face fell.

"Jesus, John, I'm sorry," Mike breathed earnestly, "I ... are you ..." John cut in, he couldn't stand this.

"Fine, yes, fine. I'm fine," he smiled weakly looking down hoping for a way out. He shifted his stance with a slight grimace, his leg was screaming. Stamford noticed, of course.

"Here, take a load off," he said in a no-nonsense doctor voice pointing back to the bench. John didn't want any damned pity. The ache wasn't real anyway, damn it. He was going to make an excuse but Mike wasn't listening any more.

"I was just going to get a coffee." Now he was pointing toward the cart vendor on the corner. "Can I get you one? Cream no sugar, right?" John nodded more in surprise than anything else. How in the hell had Mike remembered that? But Mike was half way to the cart already. John shifted uncomfortably again, grit his teeth, and made is way over to the bench. Once there he tried to school his attitude. He had always liked Mike and what else did he have to do today? Why not catch up with an old friend. After all, the big wide world hadn't stopped, just his little corner of it had. John forced himself to make small talk and tried to keep a lid on his bitterness. _Damn his hand!_ Mike was only being kind. No, Mike _was_ kind the least John could do was be civil. Talk.

"Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?" The answer to that had been ... _interesting!_

/-/-/-/-/-/

Mike was delighted, if a bit surprised, that John actually took him up on his offer to help with the moving. He had called on Thursday saying he was taking the flat share with Sherlock was wondering if he could impose. Was it Mike's imagination, or transference, or what have you, or did John really sound _better_ (somehow) than he had on Tuesday? Mike tripped over his own tongue three ways from Sunday in his haste to agree.

"Super, yes, well ... By all ... The place is nice, then? ... and don't mind Sherlock. Right, it's settled then."

He and John agreed that Mike would fetch him from Baker St. Friday morning as Mike had nothing on Friday's until his 3 pm lecture. They would head up to Camden to retrieve John's boxes from Harry's basement. Mike thought of John's sister. He had liked her well enough the few time they'd met during Uni, but she and John had always seemed to butt heads. John never, _ever_, asked his sister for anything and Mike really wasn't sure why.

The first thing Mike noticed as he pulled up to the kerb outside 221 Baker was that John was not using the cane. He must not have hid his surprise well.

"Yeah, it is psychosomatic," John huffed with a self-conscious smile as he descended the steps. "Thanks for doing this, mate. Not quite in the monthly finances to hire a car at the moment," he added quietly with another small smile. "You want a coffee before we're off?" John said a bit more brightly hooking a thumb towards Speedy's.

With coffees in hand they settled into Mike's Citroen and headed up to Camden. Mike quickly launched into stories and reminiscences their time at Bart's. John was mostly quiet and smiled politely. He even laughed a few times. He asked some polite questions about other old classmates. Mike sent him a few sideways glances as he prattled on not knowing how to act around this version of John. How could he possibly relate to the life that this John Watson had lived and almost lost. Still, John was not nearly as withdrawn and flat as he had been on Tuesday. Maybe that was something.

After loading John's boxes into the hatchback, Mike and John's stopped to buy some lunch. Mike was continuing with his near monologue.

"Oh, I'm under strict orders from Beth," Mike had begun then took a swig of his Coke. Mike had met Beth, his wife, during their third year at Bart's after John had dated (and dumped) her best friend. "I'm to invite you to tea and not take no for an answer."

"How is Beth? I'm sorry I missed the wedding, you know," John said almost sheepishly.

"Weren't you in Timbuktu or something?" Mike teased.

"Sierra Leone, I think. Never made it to Timbuktu," John replied. Mike paused for a beat.

"What was it, John? Chest? Torso?" he asked quietly, looking down.

"Shoulder," John said alternately clenching and stretching his left hand a few times. Then, much to his own surprise, he gave Mike an accurate clinical description of his injury.

"It's mostly OK, really, but that's me finished as a surgeon," he ended face blank again. Mike was sorry he had brought it up. He decided to change the subject.

"So, I've got to ask, what do you make of Sherlock?"

"He's completely mad!" John said without hesitation. "Brilliant. Absolute genius, but Jesus ..."

"A certifiable nutter," Mike supplied.

"Exactly. So I go to see the flat Wednesday night fully expecting it not to work out. You wouldn't believe it ... or, maybe you would, I don't know ... we weren't there fifteen minutes when in walks this detective inspector from Scotland Yard. Ten minutes after that we're in a cab headed to the scene of a murder in Brixton!" John launched right in to retelling all the night's events. Mike watched his friend listening intently. John was smiling broadly and there was a spark in his eye.

"I've never done anything so ridiculous in my life," John finished with a disbelieving shake of the head.

"And that says a lot coming from you, mate," Mike ribbed and John laughed.

"I'll tell Beth that you'll be by for tea a week from Sunday, then?" John smiled and nodded his assent.

/-/-/-/-/-/

_**A/N**_ - Uggh, I hope this is alright.

Not Beta'd or Brit picked. Don't own, yadda, yadda...


	4. CH 4 -- Of Tea and Crap Telly

_**Ch 4 – Of Tea and Crap Telly**_

John had just returned to Baker St. with his duffel bag, pack and suitcase. He was placing the last of his shirts and jumpers in the second draw of the dresser when Mrs. Hudson poked her head through the door with a knock and a "hoo hoo".

"Forgive me, Dr. Watson," John interrupted her with a shy smile.

"John, please," Mrs. Hudson returned the smile.

"Alright, John. Everything happened so quickly last evening that we never had a chance to take care of the particulars." She placed a tenancy agreement on top of the dresser. "Of course, Sherlock holds the lease and you'll work the rent with him but I do like to have one of these on file for all my tenants. I know you've got your hands full at the moment," She looked appreciatively at the neat stacks of clothes and the perfect hospital corners on the freshly made bed then her face fell a bit. "You do know what Sherlock is like, don't you, dear?" John looked up at her. Why did _everyone_ keep asking that question? Mrs. Hudson went on without waiting for a reply. "The state of my kitchen, in less than one day!" she sighed. "Well, you just get this back to me when you can." She patted the form twice then hurried back down the stairs before John could even say a word.

John finished unpacking his clothes from the duffel bag and suitcase and placed both in the wardrobe. He would have to find away to retrieve his boxes and other things from Harry's. Maybe Mike could help. He did volunteer, after all. He walked back to the dresser and picked up the Tenancy Agreement. It was a standard form that one could find on the Internet, and it asked all the standard questions, such as current employer, references from past landlords, and so on. Nothing that a 36 year-old professional should have any trouble providing. John sat on the bed and stared blankly at the form.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Mrs. Hudson immediately took a liking to Sherlock's new friend, John. The doctor was ever so polite and helpful and he kept the upstairs neat, to the best of his abilities given Sherlock's residence. He never failed to open a door for her, or carry her bags, or whatever else she needed whenever they met. He even brought her bins around on pick-up day. She invited him in for a cuppa and he actually _stood up_ when she came back into the room with the tray and waited for her to be seated before sitting again. Young people simply didn't do that today. He most definitely seemed like such a fine young man. That was why _incidents _were so inexplicable and odd.

First of all there was the tenancy agreement. He took three days to return it and even then he hadn't filled it out properly. He had put in his name and mobile number and that was it. His current employer was empty, for past landlords he had written none, and he had listed just a one personal reference. Then there was last Wednesday afternoon. She had popped up the stairs to check if they needed anything at the market. John was napping on the sofa. Sherlock and he had been out to all hours the previous two nights. She tried to sneak in without disturbing him to check the fridge but he woke so suddenly. In an instant he had spun around and was sitting on the edge of the sofa as if he were about to pounce. His eyes were wide and so _afraid_. He hadn't responded at all when she tried to apologize. He had just turned away and balled his hands into tight fists. She had left quickly without even checking the refrigerator. Finally, there was this morning with the silly light bulb. John had seemed happy and pleasant enough as he came down the stairs. He had seemed to not mind helping as usual but then, once she had shown him the light fixture on the basement stair, his face had immediately hardened and closed over. He curtly announced that he was sorry but that he couldn't help. Then he had walked away without a word or a backward glance. She hadn't seen him since.

/-/-/-/-/-/

"Sherlock, could I have a word," Mrs. Hudson finally asked later that afternoon as Sherlock came through the entry of 221 Baker St. Sherlock was just returning from Bart's after examining and cataloging the results from this week's mould crop. He eyed his land lady. She was wringing her hands, obvious distress, she had something to say that she thought would be upsetting. Feeling quite self-satisfied at the moment, given the success of his mould experiments, he decided to indulge her.

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock followed her into her flat. "If it's about the _Rhizopus stolonifer_ samples in the bathroom cupboard I can assure you ..."

"It's about, John," Mrs. Hudson said bluntly. Sherlock looked at her confused.

"What about him?" The old woman continued wringing her hands.

"Well, Sherlock, I know you are ... fond of him and all and he is incredibly polite and well-mannered but I am a bit worried. How well do you actually know him?" Sherlock looked at her puzzled. The older women dropped her voice conspiratorially. "He's a doctor but he's not got a position, has he?" She nods at him knowingly, "And, he's got no history of tenancy, either."

"Then there's the other things. I think there could be something ... wrong with him. He'll seem so pleasant, helpful and kind then out of the blue he'll seem cross and walk away. Like this morning I ask for help changing a florescent light."

"Phosphorescent tube," Sherlock corrected picking the tube in its cardboard case up from where it sat on the counter.

"What?" Mrs. Hudson replied confused and Sherlock slid the device out of its package and was off.

"What's commonly referred to as a fluorescent light bulb is correctly called a phosphorescent tube. The concept was first explored by Alexandre Becquerel in 1857 later adapted for commercial use by Peter Cooper Hewitt in the 1860's. Is it the one on the basement stair?" He moved through Mrs. Hudson's flat toward the offending light fixture as he expounded. "Should have been replaced more than month ago given its current coloration and ..."

"Sherlock! Are you sure John is alright!" Mrs. Hudson nearly shouted over the detectives exposition. Sherlock froze considering the worried look on his land lady's face.

"What do you mean? Why would John not be alright?" he asked cautiously.

"Well, it's just as I said. He's got no job, no references. He's usually polite and lovely as can be but then all of a sudden he can be so distant and hard, or closed off, like he's lost. Are you sure you can rely on ..."

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock began with an air of patient, knowing condescension.

"I mean, after all, did you ever consider ..."

"Mrs. Hudson,"

"I'm not a suspicious person but there _are_ people, not that John is one ..."

"Mrs. Hudson, he's a wounded veteran. Just back from Afghanistan." Sherlock announced bluntly talking over his land lady before returning his attention to the job at hand. He flipped switch to the basement light on and off several times until the old tube caught and glowed with a purplish tinge. He smiled up at the device, phosphorescent tubes really were incredibly elegant. He turned it off, reached up to the overhead fixture and easily twisted the old tube out. He the handed it back to Mrs. Hudson who was standing gape mouthed with a slightly horrified look on her face.

"I can see why John declined. I doubt he could have managed this." Sherlock said casually. He turned back, reaching up with both hands to insert the new tube. "Shoulder wound, " he continued blithely completely oblivious to Mrs. Hudson's reaction. "A rather nasty one I suspect. He'd have had to have been significantly disabled to be invalided with his skill set." At this, Mrs. Hudson raised a hand to her mouth and slowly shook her head but Sherlock prattled on.

"His range of motion is definitely reduced, especially his overhead extension. I'm not surprised you haven't noticed really. He is rather stoic about it all and he compensates well. They say it's a difficult transition, former soldiers returning from service. I thought he's been coping quite nicely." He flipped the light switch once and the tube promptly flickered to life. He smiled up at his job well done. "That's it, then. And like I said don't give a thought to the mould samples. They'll be gone by next Friday." Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson final perfunctory smile and swept out of the flat. Mrs. Hudson found herself back in her sitting room still holding the old tube. She sat on the edge of the sofa, her other hand still raised to her mouth. 'You never know who you're talking to,' she thought. John, a returning war hero. Poor, dear.

/-/-/-/-/-/

The next evening just before EastEnders came on there was a knock on the door. Mrs. Hudson was surprised to see that it was John.

"May I come in, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked .

"Yes, of course, dear," she gushed and quickly stood aside to let him in. "Can I get you tea? I made some biscuits this morning if you'd like?" John shook his head smiling shyly.

"No, no. Mrs. Hudson. Don't put yourself out." On the telly, the theme music to the programme started. John took a deep breath and stood at parade rest.

"I just wanted to apologize for yesterday." Mrs. Hudson was about to cut in but John pressed on. "I behaved ... badly. The truth of it is I've ... injured my shoulder and I can't ..." John paused and looked at Mrs. Hudson who had both hands clasped in front of her mouth "You already know all this, don't you?" Mrs. Hudson nodded and John let out and exasperated sigh, "Sherlock?"

"Of course." Mrs. Hudson replied and John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Well, now I feel like a tit." John quipped as he shifted to stand hands loose by his side. His ear tips flushed red.

"Don't worry, he seems to make everyone feel that way, dear," Mrs. Hudson said waving it off. She was rewarded with one of John's radiant smiles.

"He does at that. Is this a new episode?" John asked pointing to the screen. Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"You ... wouldn't mind if I ... Sherlock's a bit annoying to watch telly with. Actually, Sherlock's just a bit annoying," he dead panned. Mrs. Hudson smiled.

"Not at all, dear." She fussed to straighten the afghan on the back of the sofa before offering him a place to sit.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Mrs. Hudson began to make a point of checking on her new tenant regularly. She noted that John sometimes followed Sherlock out on cases but more often the detective went about his madcap inquiries and experiments as if his flat mate didn't exist. If she hadn't seen John out and about for a day or two she would be sure to pop up and ask him down for tea. Gradually, he began to stop by on his own. They would enjoy a nice cuppa and even watch a bit of telly to pass the time. She introduced him to Mrs. Turner and Mr. Chattergi and pointed out 'the married ones' to him. He never failed to compliment her baking and had been so positively potty over her apple cinnamon crumble she gave him the whole cake to take upstairs.

Mrs. Hudson enjoyed having the company, she really did, but she was still worried. John's visits always brightened her day but what did it say that this fine young man had so few prospects he spent his afternoons having tea with an old woman. She saw the worry in his face whenever he picked up his post filled with bills and overdue notices.

"You know, dear, there's a lovely surgery just over on Aybrook St," she said casually one day without looking at him while they watched a cooking show.

/-/-/-/-/-/

A few days later he handed her a slip of paper with his mom's risotto recipe while Connie Prince played in the background.

"Candy made with either toffee or hen," she read out loud teasing.

"Ah, that's 'Can be made with tofu or ham'," he corrected pointing to the messy scrawl of words on the page.

"Really, John, you doctor's and your hand writing," she swatted him playfully. He started to reply in mock indignation.

"I'll have you know I got top marks for hand writing in school. This," he gestured to the sheet still making light, "this is only because ... " he stopped short as if suddenly realizing he about walk into a trap. He stood up straight and took a step back. His face became closed off. "I got shot," he finished quietly. Mrs. Hudson quickly tried to gloss over it.

"It's fine, dear, I can read it just fine. Does this serve 6 or 8?" she asked trying to change the subject.

"I still practice, you know, trying to make it look like my real hand writing," John continued. He was looking straight ahead not at Mrs. Hudson. His face was emotionless. Mrs. Hudson tried again.

"What does it matter, John. This is fine. You should see my sister Eleanor's writing. Do you use fresh or graded parmesan?" John huffed a humourless laugh.

"No, you don't understand. I am a surgeon. I am _supposed_ to be surgeon with the RAMC. That's what I ..." He stopped short staring at his left hand. When he continued his voice was just above a whisper. "I was ... good and now I can never ..." Mrs. Hudson's heart broke as she listened. She had known loss like this. Four years ago, before Florida, she thought she had known what her future would be like, too.

"Things happen, John. They happen and change everything about how you thought your life would be." She looked away toward the collection of framed photographs on the wall. There were several conspicuous spaces.

"But then, those things, they become the past." She gave him a tight smile, "and there's room for new things.*"

/-/-/-/-/-/

A/N – Sorry this took so long. There's no real reason. Just sorry. I hope you liked it. Please read and review.

*Mrs. Hudson's last words here are paraphrased from the New Beginnings post on John Watson's Blog.

Not beta'd or Brit Picked. I may own many things but these characters are not among them.


	5. CH 5 -- Initial Disclosure

_**Initial Disclosure**_

John had bought high bond paper at the Ryman's on Baker St. and used Sherlock's printer to print four copies of his CV, or rather his old CV. This was the one that had gotten him into the NATO Medical Officer Exchange at the Mayo Clinic three years ago. John allowed him self to reminisce. It had been the most professionally interesting three months of his medical career. And bloody cold, too. Minnesota in winter? Really? Who goes to Minnesota in the winter? Only Massey, the Canadian, and Lairsen, the Norwegian, could stand the bone chilling cold. John, who had just returned from Iraq two months prior, had wished he had full Arctic gear it was that cold. John's smile at the memory instantly faded as he stretched out the fingers of his left hand to dispel the tremor.

He thought about putting on a jacket and tie but decided against it. It wasn't like he was out to impress. He wasn't a GP. Or, to be more precise, he wasn't only a GP. Besides, his brown corduroy jacket was ancient. John put the copies of his résumé in a manila folder and donned his black coat. Sherlock was in the sitting room staring at the photos of the yellow graffiti from the bank.

"I'm heading out for a bit. Need anything?" Sherlock did not so much as bat an eyelash in response and John did not linger over long waiting for one.

The waiting room at the Aybrook St. Clinic was full when John approached reception. A boy, about four years old, with a very snotty nose, stared at him as he waited. Finally, the receptionist, Elsa, pointed him down the hall toward Dr. Sawyer's office. As he approached the door, a pretty if slightly frazzled looking woman with long blond hair and a lovely smile stepped out to meet him. John wished he had put on the jacket and tie.

Sarah Sawyer was a bit surprised and maybe a little underwhelmed by the applicant she greeted in the hallway. First of all, he was dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt with a cardigan like her grandfather had worn. No tie. And he was older than she expected. Usually, new graduates applied for locem jobs. This guy had to be mid thirties. He could have used a hair cut, too. They shook hands and she offered him coffee which he declined. He seemed reluctant or something. Not nervous, but something else she couldn't put her finger on. Well, this will be quick she thought. Too bad, they really needed somebody. Two somebodies would have been better. They entered her office and he handed her his CV and waited for her to sit down before sitting himself. He had retrieved the CV from a plain manila folder. He had no case or folio. Where had this guy last worked? Sarah started to quickly scan the page, whilst the back of her mind prepared the 'we'll let you know' speech. Half way down she stopped and went back to the top and began reading carefully. John sat in his chair legs crossed with a thoroughly neutral expression on his face. Sarah got to the bottom and started at the top again. She glanced up.

"Just locem work," she said trying to sound casual.

"No, that's fine," he replied. She reached the bottom of the page again and glanced up again.

"Well, you're a bit over qualified," she pushed the hair back behind her ear nervously. He smiled at the compliment as if to say 'thanks for noticing'. She noticed the smile was nice.

"I could always do with the money," another smile. He was quite handsome when he smiled.

"Well, we've got two out on holiday and one's just left to have a baby," John was nodding in agreement looking a bit circumspect.

"Might be a bit mundane for you," Sarah said thinking it best to be honest.

"Ah, no. Mundane's good, sometimes. Mundane ... works," John tried to force a smile. Mundane work was, at least, work. He could almost hear Sherlock's retort in his head. _Job. Boring._

Sarah was scanning the CV again, "Says here you're a soldier."

"And a doctor," he replied with a nod.

"Anything else you can do?" Sarah had to ask as she looked down at the list of stellar credentials.

"Learned the clarinet at school." He huffed a small laugh and smiled that smile again. Sarah caught herself.

"Oh, I look forward to it," she joked. She brought him back out to Elsa who helped him settle the employment forms and then showed him the layout of the office. Two days later John Watson arrived promptly at 8:00 am for the day shift at the Aybrook St. Clinic carrying an extra-large coffee, cream, no sugar.

/-/-/-/-/-/

As dates went, the night had been a disaster beyond measure. Sarah was still wrapped in the blanket from the ambulance as they sat in the cab heading back to her place. At least it wasn't bright orange. They were silent but Sarah held John's hand firmly with both of hers. John was having a bit of trouble focusing, his head was killing him. It took him a second to realize that Sarah was shivering again. With his free hand he pulled the blanket more tightly around of her shoulders. She leaned into him as fresh tears ran silently down her face.

When they arrived at Sarah's flat, John paid the cabbie. He was surprised that Sarah waited for him to do this. He had assumed that she would bolt inside as soon as the wheels stopped. He walked her to her door trying desperately to think of something to say. His quip in the tunnel about their next date seemed incredibly idiotic and even callous right now. He was shite as a civilian, he knew it. The last few months had proven that. He chose this kind of life. He purposely sought it out, but not Sarah. This was incredibly unfair for her. She was literally an innocent bystander caught in the cross fire. John felt vaguely sick at the thought of what had nearly happened tonight all because Sherlock had caught some criminal's attention. Sarah's hands were shaking so he gently took the key and worked the lock for her. He then turned to face her and said the first thing he could think of.

"Sarah, I am so sorry."

Sarah wiped her cheeks and stared into John Watson's eyes. They were a remarkable shade of dark blue. She looked into his eyes for a long moment and then said the first thing that came to her mind.

"You're concussed aren't you?" It wasn't really a question. She pushed open the door and went inside and held the door for John.

"Have a seat," she said pointing toward a kitchen chair. She fumbled in the freezer and came back with ice in a zip-lock bag. She checked the bandage the paramedics had put on the gash on the side of John's head.

"Steri-strips will do." John knew what she was doing. She had dropped into professional mode so she'd know how to behave. He gently caught her hand and looked into her face again.

"I'm sorry. It's OK, it's all over. Let it go," he said gently. Sarah stared back. How did he do that? She was a wreck. It was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears again. John was completely calm. He wasn't forcing or faking calm. This was genuine. He had been this way the whole ride home. Even before that. He was talking to her again except now he was up and moving about her kitchen.

"Here, have a seat. How 'bout some tea? Are you still hungry? I make a mean slice of toast." He was holding up the loaf of bread from her bread box with his shy half-smile. She smiled back.

"I'm starving, actually." She stood up an together they made toast and tea.

/-/-/-/-/-/

John wasn't on the schedule at the surgery for the next 2 days and Sarah was off the day after that. He had called the next evening just to check on her but it was Sarah who broke the ice at work sitting with John to have lunch. That Saturday night they went to the cinema. The following weekend, John took Sarah to Angelo's. Angelo grudgingly provided a candle for the table.

John had been working at the Aybrook St. Clinic for almost a month when the incident happened. One of the workers, a young kid, really, at the construction site across the street managed to shove his arm through a plate-glass window. His mates in a panic carried him into the clinic. Sarah was at reception when they came in, blood spurting from the jagged laceration in the man's arm.

"Get John. Call 999," she ordered Elsa as she led the gory entourage into an exam room. John came in as she was trying to fit a tourniquet. Peter, their resident ear, nose and throat man, was close on his heals.

"Christ," Peter cursed but John got straight to work as if he'd dealt with severed arteries every day, and Sarah realized she knew that he had. Sarah assisted John as Peter treated the swooning, Samaritan construction workers whose knees were buckling at the sight of all the gushing blood. Truth be told, neither Sarah nor Peter had ever seen a bleed like this either. John worked deftly making incisions and clamping off two of the bleeders before the ambulance arrived. He had then ridden with the kid over to UCH. The whole office was amazed that he returned barely an hour later, after a change of clothes, and spent the afternoon giving flu jabs and prescribing amoxicillin to three year-olds with ear infections. He was as calm and relaxed as if nothing had happened.

That Friday afternoon while she and John were enjoying an after work pint Sarah finally asked the question.

"John, why the hell are you doing locem work in my surgery?" John froze his pint half way to his lips.

"You're an experienced surgeon. You're background is all in trauma and emergency medicine. You're damn good if the incident Tuesday was any sign. So why?" It wasn't accusatory, just a reasonable, innocent curiosity. John knew this but he balled his left fist and steeled his face anyway. He took a long pull of his Smithwicks. Sarah had the right to know. They were colleagues. Hell, she was his boss.

"I was deployed to Afghanistan last June. I think I told you I'd been there. A few tours, actually." Sarah nodded suddenly feeling a pang of dread about where this was going.

"Well, I didn't exactly retire from the army." John was purposefully studying his beer.

"I was invalided. I, um, I got shot." John glanced at Sarah's not without trepidation. Sarah's was staring at him agog. He jumped in with the rest of his disclaimers.

"It's fine. I'm OK, really. It, well, it's just ..." He then gave Sarah a clinical description of his injuries similar to the one he had given Mike.

"So there you have it. I'm really not a surgeon anymore," he said factually. "I probably shouldn't have treated that laceration Tuesday. It's just training took over, you know what I mean? And there weren't a lot of options." Another shy smile. Sarah regarded him for a long time then she leaned in and kissed him on the forehead and then on the lips. It was the first time they had kissed in public.

/-/-/-/-/-/

A/N – I always liked Sarah. Too bad it didn't work out. That part of the tale will be told in a separate Sarah chapter. Hope you liked it. Please read and review.

I don't own any of these characters. There's still over a month to go to 'til Season 3 in the US. It's just my coping mechanism.

Not beta'd or Brit picked.


	6. CH 6 -- Knowing the Worst

_**CH 6 - Knowing the Worst**_

When Sherlock finally swept up the stairs of 221 Baker St. that first Friday Lestrade was long gone. John had also gone out. He immediately noticed that John had moved more of his belongings into the flat. Unlike his belongings John's things were neatly put away with books and journals in the left bookcase, kettle and other kitchen items stored in the kitchen cupboards. Sherlock smirked at the note taped to John's kettle. H2O ONLY was penned in careful block letters. A smallish flat screen telly rested on top of the bookcase and a laptop PC lay closed on the coffee table. Sherlock peered out the rear window in the kitchen. Six cardboard boxes were broken down and folded into a seventh and placed with the recycling next to Mrs. Hudson's bins.

He removed his coat and crossed to the sofa and picked up the laptop. The model was a few years old but it was running Windows 7 and the screen lock was on. His username, _jhwatson_, was utterly mundane which meant his password was likely to be weak. Barely 3 minutes later Sherlock had access but he didn't bother to snoop at files rather he opened a browser window and began a new search on genus _Stachybotrys*_. He hoped to begin cultivating some of its different species. About an hour later the computer's battery warning light came on but before logging off Sherlock removed his search from the browser history. He then glanced at the other entries in the history. Listed were his website, as John had said, several news sites, a weather site, a site for football scores, Veterans-Info-UK and, at the very bottom, the URL for a personal blog. Interesting. John didn't seem the type. Sherlock navigated to the page and scanned the few, terse entries. He was right, John wasn't the sharing on-line type at all. Clearly the blog was some sort of assigned exercise. Probably from his well-meaning yet apparently inept therapist. Minimal new data. Boring. He powered off the machine and placed it back on the coffee table. Sherlock then went over to the left bookcase and perused the titles. The books seemed to fall into two categories, paperback novels (a mix of best sellers and classics) and medical texts. Annoyingly there was no indexing scheme to the shelves other than book size. He sighed in despair. On top of the bookcase, next to the telly, was an unframed painting. It was a portrait of somebody historic, but there were no other pictures or mementos anywhere else. Odd. The bottom shelf of the bookcase contained several years worth of _The Lancet_ and _The Annals_. At least these were arranged chronologically. Sherlock selected and thumbed through one of these journals. He replaced the volume and removed a pathology text instead. It was not one that he had read before. He was just about to settle into the black chair with the book when a thought hit him, John's gun. He smiled to himself, tossed the book onto the chair, strode to the stairs and took them two at a time.

The door to John's room was open. Sherlock entered without the slightest thought to John's privacy and immediately cast his gaze about the sparse room. Desk, dresser or night stand? Possibly the wardrobe but unlikely. If he was any good at all he'd only have to open one draw. Not the nightstand. John wasn't the fearful type. He wouldn't need to sleep with the gun close to have a sense of security. He was a professional soldier, the gun was simply a tool to him. The desk, then, was most likely, followed by the lower dresser draws. The draws on the left side of the desk should obviously be the best bet, John was left-handed, but at dinner the other night Sherlock noticed the trace of the power burn was on his right hand. After further consideration this made sense. John hadn't picked up shooting with his family as a boy, he had been taught to shoot in the army. Most likely he had been taught to shoot with his right hand because most military weapons tended to favor the right-handed. However, it was possible that his shoulder wound and the residual weakness in his left arm and hand had caused him to shoot with his right when he normally shot with his left. Unlikely. The shot had been too perfect and too spontaneous for it not to have been a practised maneuver. Sherlock crossed to the desk and opened the top right draw and there it was, a Browning L106A1 9mm. It was loaded and the safety was on, of course. He popped the cartridge, turned the weapon in his hands examining it and sniffed the barrel. The cartridge was missing one round but the gun itself had been thoroughly and expertly cleaned. It was pristine. There was no evidence that it had been recently fired. Sherlock smiled, _Well done, John_. The only way that this gun could possibly be tied to the cabbie was through rifling marks on the bullet but he knew for certain that the slug that forensics had dug out of the wall was thoroughly mangled. He replaced the gun in its place and went back down stairs. Instead of picking up the pathology text he turned to the mounds of boxes and began sorting his belongings and tidying up. Just a bit.

/-/-/-/-/-/

John was an idiot. Of that there was no doubt. He adhered to a rather dull and predictable daily schedule except when he didn't. He shopped and cooked food and cleaned up after himself. He was unfailingly polite, especially to Mrs. Hudson, and he was extremely careful with his money, what little he had going by his on-line banking statements.

Sherlock had noticed that when John was at home he often ate vegetarian (probably to economize) and that he was a reasonably competent, if basic, cook. For the first six days after moving into 221B Baker St. every time John made food or tea for himself he asked if Sherlock wanted any. Sherlock rarely bothered to answer. After three days of asking John began placing cups of tea in front of Sherlock even though the detective had made no acknowledgement. On the fourth day John lay a plate of toast and an apple next to Sherlock's morning tea.

"Eat," he commanded before crossing to the chair by the fireplace to idly read the paper and sip his own tea. Sherlock actually did.

After the first six days John simply brewed two cups of tea. He still offered to share whatever he made out of politeness but he also periodically placed food in front of the detective and issued the single word command. More often than not Sherlock ate at least some of what his flatmate fed him. He especially liked John's vegetarian risotto and his chicken pot pie because John made both with peas instead of carrots. Sherlock didn't care for carrots, too chunky and orange for his liking.

/-/-/-/-/-/

John wasn't happy to find the petri dish of healthy _Stachybotrys chartarum _in the cupboard under the sink in the bathroom.

"Jesus, Sherlock, what is this?"

"It's mould, John," Sherlock had replied sarcastically.

"Yeah, good. I got that but what is it doing here?"

John listened patiently with a slightly furrowed brow as Sherlock launched into the goals and methods for his mould experiment.

"It's quite unlike any other study conducted to date, the ramifications for forensics alone are likely to be very far-reaching," the detective concluded.

John paused for a beat then returned the dish to its place in the cupboard.

"Just keep it out of the toothpaste," he said as he moved into the kitchen.

Sherlock's eye widened. _Toothpaste. _A potential growing media he had never considered. John was brilliant.

/-/-/-/-/-/

"Throw me that tea towel, will you?" John asked as he balanced his laundry basket on the kitchen chair and casually held a hand up. Sherlock, who was busy placing a new mould culture in the rear corner of the cupboard, complied without turning around. He merely tossed the towel backwards toward the centre of the sound. John easily snagged the rag out of mid-air and continued into the loo to the stacking washer/dryer. Sherlock wandered in a few minutes later.

"Do you always do this?" he asked abruptly as John sorted his clothes into lights and darks, throwing the latter in to the washer.

"Do what?" John asked as he pointed to the bath towel on the rack next to Sherlock. The detective handed the towel over. "Just sorting my clothes like my mum taught me." John smiled tossing the towel and a flannel from the sink into the washer and starting the cycle. He paused it when he noted his flatmate was still staring at him with a curious expression.

"Did you have something else that needed to go in?" he asked innocently. Sherlock scrunched his face up at the question. John couldn't decide if he was perplexed or horrified.

"What?" he asked starting to get exasperated. It was just the bloody laundry.

"Mr. Lu's cousin runs an excellent laundry. Seven locations across the city. There's even one over on Linhope St." Sherlock offered helpfully.

"Good for Mr. Lu's cousin," John said dryly as he placed the basket with the next load in front of the washer then he caught up. "Wait. So every week you take all your clothes over to a laundry?" he wondered aloud.

"Oh, no. Don't be ridiculous, John." John nodded some how relieved by this.

"They pick-up and deliver." Sherlock smiled and turned away leaving John staring, mouth half-open, as he started the cycle again.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sherlock was playing his violin standing in the sunlight streaming through the high windows. John was at the desk updating his blog. Sherlock stopped mid-phrase and lowered his bow.

"Herman?"

"Shut up."

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sherlock enjoyed pursuing John's medical texts and journals. John had clearly been a conscientious student. The books were neatly highlighted and annotated with margin notes written a small, precise script. Similarly, many of the journals had articles earmarked with yellow sticky notes also written in a small meticulous hand. The handwriting so obviously matched John's precise, attentive nature. That was why seeing John's notebook was a bit of a turn up.

Sherlock had noticed that John always carried a pocket notebook and pen and dutifully made notes or sketches when they went to crime scenes. Sherlock couldn't see the point and ignored him. Besides, John usually missed everything of importance anyway unless Sherlock explained it to him. Clearly John needed to delete more of the useless _knowledge_ he clung to if he needed a notebook to remember important facts like crime scene details for more than a few days. It wasn't likely that he'd ever meet the Prime Minister or even his MP never mind that red-headed actress from the telly.

John had left his notebook on top of his PC in the sitting room and, of course, Sherlock felt compelled to flip through it. The pages were filled with a tight, untidy scrawl very different from the neat textbook notes. _Reduction of fine motor skills probably as a result of nerve damage_. Unfortunate. He tossed notebook back on the desk and opened John's computer.

Several days later Sherlock found his favorite pathology text on the kitchen table. When he retrieved it a folded sheet of loose leaf paper slid out. Sherlock open the sheet and noticed that it was filled with John's cramped, uneven handwriting. He began to read,

_Chapter 1 – Introduction_

_Pathology has long played a central role in medicine for _

_one most know what injures and kills if one is to heal ..._

John had been copying the text like a school boy writing lines. Sherlock carefully placed the paper back inside the book and returned the book to the table. He could finish that article on flesh necrosis instead.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sherlock thought nothing of it the first few times he heard John moving about the flat in the middle of the night. He, himself, was frequently up at what other people called odd hours. Why would that be something to note. In fact, he hadn't even noticed John's first two nightmares but gradually he saw the pattern. He would hear John suddenly thrash about in his sleep or sit bolt upright. Sometimes he cried out. It was obvious and to be expected he supposed. War was traumatic to normal people. Over the next several weeks he created a nightmare scale from 1 to 5. John did not get up after a One or a Two. After a One he usually fell back to sleep within 15-30 minutes and did not turn on his bed side light. After a Two he did switch on the light but still was usually able to go back to sleep within 45 minutes or so. After a Three or above John would get up and silently make himself tea. He then would either get Sherlock talking or read in his chair (a Three). Or, he would stare blankly at some inane television programming until dawn (a Four). Five was included in the scale for completeness to allow for a nightmare reaction beyond a Four but Sherlock hadn't observed one yet.

Sherlock was sitting on the floor behind his black chair under the window. He was working out the readability of different fonts and page tints under nocturnal ambient light conditions when he heard the strangled, incoherent cry followed by the sound of John bolting upright in bed. A Four. Damn. Not only was his work only half done, he would undoubtedly have to endure whatever crap telly John chose to anesthetize his brain with tonight. John steps were uneven as he descended the stairs, as was his gait as he made his way to the kitchen where he put the kettle on without turning on the light. He then stood rigidly at the counter with his hands clenched into tight fists. His breathing was measured. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. Abruptly, he inhaled sharply and let out what could only be described as a shuddering breath. He dropped his head, repeatedly scrubbing his right hand through his short hair, and blew out another shaky breath and another and another. His left arm was curled in tight around his body. Sherlock, who was completely at a loss, remained silent and motionless. He never seen John act this way before. Was this a Five?

Gradually John re-established his pattern of measured breathing. The kettle was boiling now and he reached up with his right hand to remove a mug from the cupboard. He stopped half way reaching up with his left hand instead forcing himself to extend his reach above his head to the second shelf. He pulled down one mug then reached up past the point of pain again for a second mug.

"Make some noise, would you. I-I know you're there," John said in quiet, almost tremulous voice as he kneaded his shoulder with his right hand. Sherlock hesitated then stuttered,

"Sorry ... I ...," and stopped. John finished making tea into the awkward silence. The only sound was his measured breathing. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. After the tea was steeped John picked up both mugs, intending to bring them to the sitting room, but his left hand began to shake sloshing hot tea onto his hand. He cursed and quickly put the cups back down then swung his head over toward Sherlock and back again in embarrassment.

"John!" Sherlock had started toward the kitchen in alarm but stopped as John stiffened. More silence as John ran cold water over his left hand. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four.

"You'll have to get your own tea. It seems I can't ... quite ... manage it," he finally bit out. He then dried his hand on the tea towel and turned to face Sherlock for the first time. He stood at attention, square-shouldered and head up, with eyes straight ahead focused on the sitting room wall past Sherlock's right ear.

"Flatmates should know the worst, yeah?" Sherlock, unsure of what to do or say, gave only a small shrug. John responded with a single tight nod before continuing.

"Well, I'm crippled ex-soldier with no job, little money, few relations and fewer prospects." His gaze and posture were unwavering as he awaited Sherlock's reply. Sherlock crossed to the counter and retrieved the mugs of cooling tea. He held one out to John.

"I know."

/-/-/-/-/-/

_**A/N**_ – Sorry I've taken awhile to update. I'll blame the holidays. Yeah, it was definitely the holidays. Happy New Year!

According to Wikipedia: "_Stachybotrys_ is a genus of molds, or asexually reproducing, filamentous fungi." And Wikipedia knows everything :-)

_Stachybotrys chartarum _is a species of supposedly toxic mold.

Also, for those unfamiliar, The Lancet is the famous British medical journal and The Annals is the chief publication of the Royal College of Surgeons.

The peas bit and the "Herman" bit are lifted from The Sign of Three. I've never laughed so hard in my life!

I wonder what the NSA makes of my browser history with the searches on toxic molds, 9mm hand guns, medical journals, violins, veterans benefits in the UK, kevlar vests, semtex and C4, etc.?

Please read and review. I promise to answer unless they take impound my computer ...

I don't even own the electrons this story was written with.

Not beta'd or brit-picked.


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